


I love you. Be careful.

by Bunnywest



Series: Thank you fics. [7]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Oral Sex, desription of injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 15:16:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13883556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/pseuds/Bunnywest
Summary: Peter doesn't know how his husband can stand it, being human, being breakable.He makes sure to remind him to take care, every day.And the one time he doesn't, his worst fears are realized.





	I love you. Be careful.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kuriouskitten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuriouskitten/gifts).



> Written for this prompt from kuriouskitten  
> "I need a hurt comfort fic of some kind. I took a nasty nasty fall on the ski slopes today, so I'm headed to ER. And I'd like to read about Peter or Stiles getting injured terribly (mean, I know) and the other freaking out, getting surrounded by pack, then doing all the "OMG, I was so scared" making out/grinding/sex etc after.  
> Unless thats too long. Then take out any pack interaction."
> 
> It's not exactly that, because terrible injuries aren't exactly conducive to sexytimes, but I came as close as I could.

 

Peter doesn’t know how Stiles _lives_ like this.

Every day when he leaves the house, anything could happen to him. He’s so _breakable._

Sometimes he doesn’t even leave the house and he does damage to himself.  Just last week his hand slipped when he was slicing a tomato and just like that, there was a giant gash in his palm, and it didn’t heal, and Stiles had to wrap it and get stitches and he just carried on like it was no big deal, being in pain and having to work around the injury.

It would drive Peter mad, not to heal.

So he makes sure to remind his husband to be careful, because Stiles is fragile, and he’s Peter’s whole world.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s their ritual.

It started when they were first married.

Stiles has always been accident prone, and the newly waxed floor boards in their apartment were treacherous. He managed to upend himself three times in a week as he was racing out the door. So Peter started reminding him, every day, of the same two things. Three years later, he’s still doing it.

Every time Stiles walks out the door, Peter says “I love you.” And about four seconds later he says “Be careful, sweetheart.”

And Stiles always rolls his eyes and says “Well, I wasn’t going to, but if you insist.”

Mostly he says it fondly. Some days he says it with a groan, as if Peter’s treating him like a child. Peter doesn’t care. He doesn’t feel right if he hasn’t told Stiles that he loves him, and to be careful.

Except this morning, he didn’t tell him.

This morning, they were squabbling over some petty thing, and Stiles had walked out in a huff, saying “We’ll talk when you’ve had coffee man, because you’re a pain in my ass right now.” And Peter hadn’t followed him, because he was sulking.

He hadn’t said I love you. He hadn’t said be careful. And now he might never get to say those things again.

 

* * *

 

 

It was a freak accident, the sort of thing you see on the news, where you wince when they describe what happened. It wasn’t that Stiles slipped on the black ice. He’s done that more than once. It was that when he slipped he fell backwards over a metal railing, a low fence that someone had erected to keep dogs or neighbors out of their front yard. And when they’d built it, they’d left one long sharp metal paling sticking up, for whatever reason.

It had stabbed through the meat of Stiles’ thigh like a hot knife through butter, in through the back, out through the front, and when the ambulance had arrived they’d had to cut through the pole and take him to hospital with it still embedded in his leg.

Peter thinks of the cut on Stiles’ hand, how long that had taken to stop bleeding. And he thinks of how much Stiles had bitched when he’d had the stitches put in. He didn’t bitch this time, though. When Peter got there after the hospital called him, Stiles was white faced and silent, an indicator that he was barely holding it together. He nodded at Peter, lips thin and pressed tightly together, and twenty seconds later he passed out.

And now his baby’s having surgery, and they won’t let him in, no matter how much he threatens and shouts and offers bribes to the nurse at the desk, and what if his boy dies in there?

What if he doesn’t get to say “I love you,” one last time?

The nurses are eyeing him warily as he paces the waiting room, and it’s taking all his willpower not to shift and roar at them, to terrify them into letting him in. He reminds himself grimly that they don’t know what he is, and telling them would do more harm than good. It helps him keep control, barely. He spins on his heel to continue his pacing, and hits a wall of muscle.

It’s Derek, of course. Arms wrap around him, holding him firmly in place, and Derek’s soft tones wash over him as he croons “It’s OK,  Peter, breathe with me.”

He pulls away, snarling “Don’t say that! It’s not OK! And it will _never_ be OK if anything happens to him!”

As he goes to walk way, another body blocks his path. It’s Noah, this time. “Peter, he’ll be fine. I talked to the doctors. He’s badly injured, but it’s not life threatening, all right?” Noah holds his face in place and looks him in the eye as he tells him, making sure Peter’s listening, understands what he’s saying.

“But I saw, there was so much blood, and there was a metal bar sticking out of his leg, and he doesn’t heal like I do,” Peter starts, before breaking down. He’s been holding it together, barely, by snapping and snarling, but the kindness of Noah’s touch undoes him. “He can’t die, OK?” he whispers out, his voice broken.

Derek’s pulls him close, and the two men surround him with their bodies, letting him hide his face in Derek’s shoulder as disobedient tears escape without any kind of permission from Peter. Peter’s breath hitches and he sniffles like a child, but neither of the other two say anything, knowing that there’s no need.

Finally, Peter draws a deep breath, and straightens up. Derek’s hand is warm on his shoulder, and Noah is looking at him with understanding in his eyes as he reassures him, “Stiles will be fine, Peter. He’s _not dying_.” He adds “It’ll take more than a damn stake through the leg to stop my boy.”

Peter pulls out a handkerchief and wipes his face, breathes in, breathes out, does it again, and stands there, eyes closed as he gathers himself. “You’re right of course, Noah. Stiles is tougher than he looks. He gets that from you, I think.”

Noah nods approvingly. When he found out that his son was dating Peter, he’d thought the age difference was going to be the issue, not Peter turning out to be a damn werewolf,  but he’d happily supported them when they wanted to marry. Anyone who can make Stiles as happy as Peter does is all right in his book, even if he does turn into something from a fairytale once a month. So he takes pity on his son in law, and says “Now, how about you go and say sorry to those nurses for being a pain in their ass, and then I’ll get you in to see Stiles?”

Peter says ‘But they said nobody can go in yet, they said –“

“I am the _Sheriff_ , son. And that’s my boy. We’re going in there, trust me.”

And he’s right. While Peter apologises, Noah talks quietly to a doctor, and suddenly, he’s allowed in. They take him to see Stiles, who’s out of surgery and drifting in and out of consciousness. Peter can hear that his heartbeat’s steady and strong, and that reassures him more than the manufactured _beep beep beep_ of the machines. Peter sits next to the bed and takes his husband’s hand, and after checking nobody’s watching, drains some of his pain away.

Stiles’ eyes flicker open. “S’you.”

“It is, sweetheart. I love you.”

Stiles smiles dopily, not quite there. “I fell.”

“You did, baby.”

Stiles brow furrows. “M’sorry, Peter. Wasn’t careful.”

“What? No darling, it was just an accident.”

“Love you” Stiles slurs out, and then he’s out for the count.

Peter leans in and kisses his forehead softly. “Get some rest, sweetheart. I love you.”

Stiles doesn’t hear him, but Peter doesn’t care. He got to say it again.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s a week before they let Stiles out of hospital, and Peter spends every day at his side. When it’s time for Stiles to leave, they bring him a wheelchair and he goes to get out of bed, but Peter’s at his side in a flash, lifting him before his feet can even touch the floor. “Be careful, sweetheart,” he murmurs as he lowers Stiles carefully down.

“Well, I wasn’t going to, but if you insist,” Stiles says fondly. Peter beams.

He drives Stiles home carefully, and carries him into the house, bridal style. Stiles smiles the whole time, partly because he’s happy to be home, and partly because he’s so happy to be alive right now. Peter settles him in bed, and then crawls in next to him. He’s careful to settle on Stiles’ good side, and he places his hand on him and draws any lingering pain away. Stiles moans in relief. He leans against Peter, saying “I never told you I was sorry.”

“Sorry for what, exactly?”

Stiles sighs. “I walked out like a dick, and I never even let you say the thing. If I hadn’t stormed out in a hissy fit, if I’d actually _been_ careful, I probably wouldn’t have gone ass up and stabbed myself on that fucking railing.”

Peter nuzzles his ear, saying “Stiles, I could have come after you. I didn’t because I was sulking. And then I thought I’d lost you, and all I could think was that I’d never get to tell you that I loved you ever again.” He turns slightly so he can kiss Stiles gently, before continuing “But now you’re home, and you’re safe, and I’m so glad to have you back. I missed you.”

Stiles snorts. “You probably slept better than you have in years without me tossing and turning every night.”

And it’s true – Stiles does whirl like a dervish in bed at night, and Peter teases him endlessly about it.

Peter shakes his head though. “I missed you. I missed your tossing and turning. I missed you talking in your sleep. I missed you wrapping yourself around me like a clinging vine.” He stops to kiss Stiles again, before adding “Missed you waking me up with your mouth.”

Stiles grins at that. “I missed that too. As soon as I can move properly, I’m giving you the best blow job _ever_.”

Peter chuckles softly. “No rush, darling.”

He arches a brow at Stiles. “ _I_ can move properly,” he says, sultry and suggestive.

Stiles’ grin widens. “You _can_ move properly.”

Peter kisses Stiles more firmly, and Stiles responds, holding Peter close as he explores his mouth. Peter sneaks a hand down the front of Stiles’ pyjama pants, and finds him hardening. “Oh ho, what have we here?” he teases when they break their kiss.

Stiles presses into his hand, fully erect now, and Peter slides his hand up and down a few times before laying Stiles down on the bed and carefully raising his hips and easing the pants off him. He pauses when he sees the bandaged area of Stiles’ thigh, and places a tiny kiss right on the edge of it, before continuing to slide the pyjamas off. Peter doesn’t tease – it’s been too long, and he’s missed this too much.

Keeping a hand on Stiles leg and drawing away any discomfort, he deepthroats him effortlessly, working his mouth up and down in a smooth rhythm, running his tongue around the head the way he knows Stiles likes. Stiles hisses at the sudden warmth and wetness surrounding him him, groaning out “Fuck, yeah.”

Peter smiles against his skin, and speeds up. He cups a hand around Stiles’ balls, massaging them and rolling them around as he sucks harder, hollowing his cheeks out. Stiles starts thrusting up into his mouth making urgent noises, and Peter knows he’s close. He sucks and licks and hums until Stiles is shaking with need, and when Stiles arches his back and comes down his throat, he swallows it all.

He stays where he is, mouth soft and warm around Stiles’ rapidly deflating cock, just enjoying the feel of the soft skin, the smell of his husband, the intimacy of the moment. Stiles groans after a moment, and bats at Peter’s head feebly, pushing him away. Peter obligingly removes his mouth and moves back up the bed.

“Went off in thirty seconds like a damn fifteen year old,” Stiles laughs breathlessly.

Peter smiles a little smugly, saying “Well, I’m very good.”

 

* * *

 

 

By the time Stiles has recovered completely from his injuries, it’s obvious that he’s going to have a decent sized circular scar on his thigh. Peter catches him looking at it intently once or twice. But Stiles doesn’t bring it up, so neither does he. He couldn’t care less if there’s a scar, he still has his husband. So he’s surprised when he comes home one day to see that Stiles has his leg wrapped, and he’s moving a little gingerly.

“Stiles? What’s wrong? Did you hurt yourself?”

Stile shakes his head, and he looks a little nervous. “I got a tattoo.”

Peter’s honestly shocked. Stiles has never mentioned wanting to get a tattoo. “Why, sweetheart?”

Stiles takes a deep breath. “Every time I looked at the scar, all I could think of was how I walked out on you in a bitch fit. And how if this had gone really bad, the last thing I said to you would have been that you were a pain in my ass.”

Stiles starts to peel back the wrapping on his leg as he speaks. “So I gave myself something better to look at.”

Peter steps closer, not know what to expect. It’s certainly not what he sees. The scar’s still there, certainly. A shiny round mark, red and angry. But it has something around it now. About an inch out from the edge, a row of words runs in a circle, in delicate copperplate.

**_I love you. Be careful, sweetheart._ **

Stiles beams as he says, “Now when I see it,I’ll always think of you.”

 


End file.
